


How Gay Porn Ruined John's Life

by phqyd_roar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doctor Kink, Fluff, Humor, John is not quite gay, M/M, Military Kink, Porn, Season/Series 02, Sherlock doesn't know the solar system but he sure knows porn, Smut, feel good, ish, sherlock is a horny gay baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 08:05:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11573892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phqyd_roar/pseuds/phqyd_roar
Summary: Well.That rather settled John’s long-standing question of Is-Sherlock-Gay.John stared at the screen of *his computer damn it*, where a rather telling video was paused. What John could see that was not hidden by the big play button seemed to suggest that two of those blokes were giving the third one a rather good time.





	How Gay Porn Ruined John's Life

**Author's Note:**

> To celebrate 500 followers on my baby Tumblr blog. If I keep waffling about I'm not gonna get finished until 600...so here.  
> John and Sherlock's porny, happy, sexy life. *What a tender world that would be*
> 
> https://phqyd-roar.tumblr.com/

Well. 

That rather settled John’s long-standing question of Is-Sherlock-Gay.

John stared at the screen of _his computer damn it_ , where a rather telling video was paused. What John could see that was not hidden by the big play button seemed to suggest that two of those blokes were giving the third one a rather good time.

John licked his lips, tempted. Okay, it’s not on to go snooping into what porn your flatmate watches, but it was his computer and Sherlock had left it open. 

John coughed, looked away, and pressed play with his other hand so casually it might have been an accident.

Loud moaning immediately blared from the speakers, and John scrambled to turn it down, blushing hotly though there was no one to see. Right, so the video seemed to be in some sort of prison setting, and two buff, blond, heavily tattooed policemen (one of them still sporting a police cap) were having their fun with a young, dark haired boy handcuffed to the bars. The quality was blurry, and those masculine grunts and groans really just nauseated John. He quickly clicked the window closed, telling himself off for prying. Feeling guilty, he put the laptop back exactly where it’d been before he came in, and went out for some groceries.

 

John wasn’t gay. He was really quite open-minded about it; He hadn’t been lying through his teeth when he told Sherlock it was all fine, whatever he liked. John liked girls, liked their soft voices, their breasts and curves, the way they dripped onto his fingers when he rubbed them just right. When he was younger, John had had the good fortune of being well-liked by girls. He was the one arsehole his mates yelled at when they hadn’t been able to pull a girl in months, because it just came so _easy_ to John. John appreciated when a bloke was good-looking, and he’d even snogged one or two back in his clubbing days. It was all in good fun, drunken and rowdy, and afterwards they had congratulated each other on their kissing techniques and lamented that it didn’t go to their cocks, not one bit. Honestly, if he was a bit gayer, he would have had quite a jolly time in the army. 

Sherlock, well, Sherlock was definitely a good-looking bloke. John sometimes found himself staring at Sherlock a bit too long because he was just so pretty. When they first met, John had been caught up in Sherlock’s brilliance, found him sharp and shining and cutting like a diamond. But now they’d been living together for over a year, John saw more and more snippets of Sherlock’s softer side. His sleepily petulant face when John shook him awake to tell him, “You’ll get backache if you keep sleeping on the sofa.” His chagrined little smile when John caught him out bluffing. The way he looked so vulnerable and young when the light hit his cheeks just right.

John thought about that video with frightening frequency, not for any other reason, just because it was so _weird_ to think of Sherlock watching porn. Sherlock was so buttoned up, so public school, prim and proper in his three thousand quid suits. John tried to picture Sherlock with his eyes fixed on the screen and his hand down his pants like any regular bloke and it just didn’t work. John wondered what about that video appealed to Sherlock, wondered if he imagined himself in the place of the young brunet. John found his thoughts kept wandering to the video and his gaze dropping to Sherlock’s lips as he watched Sherlock talk.

John started to figure that his obsession with this might be a bit not good.

 

John opened his mouth to tell the innkeepers that he and Sherlock were not a couple, and the words didn’t come out. Nope. He just opened his mouth and there was nothing there. John was a bit alarmed. As they casually invaded Britain’s most well-guarded research facility, John was puzzled with what was going on in his own head and hyperaware of Sherlock next to him, witty and ridiculous and stupidly attractive.

What was worse, when Sherlock complimented him on his rank pulling, John’s brain helpfully pulled up an image of himself all decked out in his army fatigues pulling rank on Sherlock. John’s brain cheered, did cartwheels. 

It was nothing. Sherlock kept pushing him around all the time, John just had some underlying resentment, that was it. People always imagine train wreck stuff they don’t _actually_ want to do.

“Oh, can we not do this again?” John found himself saying. “You being all mysterious with your cheekbones, and turning your coat collar up so you look cool.”

Sherlock looked mortally offended. 

“I don’t do that.”

“Yeah, you do,” John muttered, and carried on brooding.

Sherlock looked rather thoughtful.

 

John was not drunk. He was as not drunk as he was not gay. His knuckles turned white on the bannisters as he hauled himself up to 221B by sheer force of will. The living room was dimmed, Sherlock sat at the table illuminated by the light of his laptop.

“Hello, lovely,” said John, and burst into giggles.

Sherlock tapped out the end of whatever he was writing and looked up, giving John a once-over.

“Four pints of Stella, two pints of Guinness, and a _tequila shot_ , John? Really, you’re thirty-six.”

John waved a hand emphatically. He wasn’t going to take that sort of sass, not him. He dropped heavily into his armchair, rubbing his temples as the room swayed.

“Go back to your wanking, yer wanker.”

Sherlock frowned a bit, looking caught between affronted and amused.

“I wasn’t, as you so eloquently put it, _wanking_.” 

“Yeah? You jacked one off already today?” John mumbled, pulling his jacket closer around himself as his eyelids drooped.

Sherlock snorted.

“You don’t have to shag ‘em prison lads. You can shag me,” John muttered as he fell asleep.

 

Awwwww shit. Crapity fucking crap.

John had already hauled his sorry arse out of bed to get a paracetamol and a glass of water, and was lying on the sofa groaning when the memory of the previous night hit. 

“Ah, hello, John.”

John tumbled to the carpet and took a cushion to hide his face with.

“I’m not the John you’re looking for,” he claimed croakily. 

“Yes, I see that. Lestrade is trying to tempt me out of the house with a meagre five; I was going to send you but I see you’re a bit under the weather. Well, ta.”

John heard Sherlock’s rapid footsteps rumble down the stairs and removed the cushion from his face. What the hell? Had he imagined offering Sherlock a shag, then?

A while later, John tested the waters by texting Sherlock: 

_Bring back Chinese. Am dying._

Sherlock replied as swiftly as always.

_Doubtful. Chinese hardly good remedy for terminal hangovers, thought you were a doctor, John. -SH_

_Pretty please with wontons on top._

_Fine. -SH_

John grinned. They were alright, then.

 

Yeah, John definitely hadn’t hallucinated the drunken come-on.

Evidence: They’d had to ride the tube home from a crime scene because they were both covered in mud and confetti - long story. Anyway, the tube was crowded, and John had been holding onto Sherlock’s shoulder to steady himself as they talked and Sherlock had started blushing as John’s unruly eyes made their usual flick down to Sherlock’s lips. John found himself grinning in response, leaning even closer as Sherlock’s cheeks reddened and his pupils grew dark. 

John didn’t actually say anything though. That is, he’d already said enough. And honestly he wasn’t quite sure what was going on with himself and his sexuality and whatnot. He was just pretty sure that if he got to snog Sherlock, it would be quite nice.

As they walked home from Baker Street Station, Sherlock’s hand brushed John’s sleeve once or twice. On a whim, John took it and laced their fingers together, staring straight ahead like this was nothing to raise an eyebrow at. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock look at him, but he also kept mum about this new development. Sherlock’s hand was large and warm and dry, perfectly steady in John’s palm.

It got a bit awkward when they got to the front door, and John had a dilemma between pulling out his keys and letting go of Sherlock’s hand so he just said a mental fuck-it and went in for the kiss. Sherlock - Christ, he was adorable - let out a surprised little ‘hmf’ and snogged John back with fervor, all tongue and teeth, his arm wrapped around John’s waist to pull him closer.

John pulled back, laughing, a bit uncomfortable that his height was putting him in the feminine position, and hopped up onto the doorstep.

“ _I’m not his date, I’m not gay, we’re not a couple, people might talk_ ,” Sherlock mocked triumphantly in a sing-song tone that was supposed to be some appropriation of John’s voice.

“I’m _not_ gay,” said John, giving him a playful shove as he reached for his keys. “You’re just too bloody fit.”

“I won’t deny that,” said Sherlock, still supremely smug.

 

John and Sherlock were both humongous wussies. Every time their snogging sessions got a bit too hot and heavy one of them would go make a cup of tea, or go to the toilet, or start a boner-murdering topic such as how fast corpses rot. 

John thought about shagging Sherlock. He thought and thought and thought about it. And he was really quite warming to the idea. He’d been spicing up his porn-watching too, and he’d found, when he turned the sound off, the sight of a pale, pert bum and a pink, winking arsehole was, um. Quite arousing, actually. 

So when Sherlock once again came out of his room yawning in nothing but a sheet, John cheerfully shoved him against the wall and snogged him until his brain crashed. Sherlock blinked his big eyes at John, looking utterly confused. John grinned, pressed a bit closer.

“You wearing any pants?” He asked.

“No.”

“Let’s see.”

Sherlock let his sheet drop like a demure maiden.

“Well?” He snapped when John just stared.

“Hn.” John cleared his throat. “Yes, very nice.”

Sherlock reached out to cup John’s clearly bulging crotch, squeezing through the thick denim.

“Nice?”

“Oh-god-hell. Gorgeous. Brilliant. Work of art, you.”

“I haven’t done anything yet.” Sherlock smirked, clearly pleased.

“Turn around,” John muttered, shoving Sherlock against the wall as he spoke.

His palms brushed down Sherlock’s trim waist and squeezed those plush globes, pulled them apart, and groaned. Sherlock’s anus was tiny and dry and looked like it couldn’t fit so much as a finger.

“Did you just squeak?” John asked, delighted.

“Shut up,” Sherlock responded sulkily.

“No?” John brushed a curious finger gently around Sherlock’s hairless pucker. “There it is again.”

“Shut up and _touch me_ , John.”

“I am touching you,” John feigned. He rubbed Sherlock’s hole some more, unbearably turned on and eager to end this day gayer than he was before.

“ _John_!”

“Alright…” A bit nervously, he slipped his hand around and grasped Sherlock’s hot, hard penis. “Ohhh.”

There. John had another bloke’s bits in his hand. How was that? It felt only natural to stroke it a bit. Sherlock’s reaction was flattering - his breath came in broken stutters, his thighs trembled. Sherlock’s cock was plump and thick in his hand, the head moistened with precome. John pulled his foreskin up and down, rolled his thumb over the head, and couldn’t help pressing his own uncomfortably confined erection hard against Sherlock’s bare arse.

“John!” Sherlock cried urgently. 

Sherlock’s cock throbbed, wet sticky fluid spilled over John’s fingers. John let out a surprised chuckle and then censored himself quickly. That was the most adorable, sexy thing ever. If John had any leftover reservations about Sherlock’s equipment, it was gone now. He gently rubbed Sherlock’s erection until Sherlock pushed his hand away.

“Hey.” John grabbed Sherlock by the hips before he ran off to hide in his room. “That was…very good.”

“Was it?” Sherlock peered at him warily, his cheeks flushed.

John nodded as authoritatively as he could possibly manage. He tugged Sherlock over to the sofa, crumpled sheet and all, and kissed him and kissed him while Sherlock’s long, nimble fingers worked over John’s cock.

 

John was not only an experienced lover but a doctor, and he must have seen a thousand bodies. But this one was different because it was Sherlock’s. As wonderfully brilliant as Sherlock’s mind was, his body was nothing too extraordinary. Pale planes and graceful angles and dark curls, John had seen it before, but it was not the same at all. Every inch of smooth skin made John’s heart pound unevenly. That sharp collarbone, the long neck, gave John the primal urge to bite his mark into Sherlock’s skin. A long foot pressed against John’s good shoulder, John stroked over the arch, sucked a toe into his mouth, and watched Sherlock’s lips fall open and his eyelashes flutter so rapidly and his knuckles turn white against the headboard.

“Are you going to give me something to suck?” John asked, and thought that didn’t sound like something he would say at all.

Sherlock spread his legs for him, and John stopped thinking at all.

 

It was incredibly distracting, this thing with Sherlock, and John’s pretty sure he hadn’t been such a randy bastard since he was in college. John had graduated from giggling at crime scenes to hiding boners at crime scenes, so, if that was what Sally Donovan was talking about when she said Sherlock would be a bad influence, well, she wasn’t wrong. 

Sherlock provoked him brazenly but subtly enough that the police wouldn’t notice but John would. A touch here and there, sucking a finger into his mouth to taste some evidence, dropping to his knees to examine the carpet. That little bastard. They’d stolen far too many heated kisses when the Yarders’ backs were turned, palming at each others’ trousers like horny schoolboys and then pretending to be respectable when their company came back.

“I’ll stop calling you if the two of you keep doing that,” Lestrade threatened.

Sherlock made a face of outraged innocence.

“Despite what you think, I am actually a detective, okay?”

John bit his cheek to keep from laughing and almost had sex with Sherlock on the cab home. 

 

It was all very official - the receptionist redirected the call to John’s landline. John picked up and said, “Dr Watson speaking. How can I help?”

“Doctor,” drawled Sherlock with dramatic despair. “I’m feeling rather poorly. Do you do house calls?”

John put his hand over the mouthpiece and snickered. God damn it, really? Then he got a handle on himself and said, “Sherlock, I’m at work.”

“Perfectly sound observation, doctor, but I was hoping you’d go…deeper.”

The phrasing sounded familiar. John was sure last time it had not been delivered in quite such a suggestive tone.

“And what’s supposed to be wrong with you?” John asked dryly.

“I’m feeling very… _hot_. My breath is coming too quickly,” he panted to demonstrate. “And I’m feeling some curious sensations in my trousers.”

“Is that so,” said John, deadpan. “I think that’s rather serious. You’d better take all your clothes off to cool down. Don’t touch your genitals. Stay hydrated. I’ll come by to examine you shortly.”

John shifted slightly in his seat as he hung up, and checked his watch. Three hours until Sherlock would get his physical. John had some coughs and flus to deal with first.

 

John caught a hint when Sherlock started brazenly leaving him army porn on his laptop every time he used it. “Insatiable Twink used by Military Studs,” proclaimed the latest one. Sherlock certainly had singular taste in pornography. 

“Can you take my uniform to the dry cleaners with your posh shirts, love?”

Sherlock trailed by, staring at his phone.

“I don’t know, can I?”

John rolled his eyes.

“That’s an order, cadet.”

“Cadet? I am at least a lieutenant.”

John grinned, then leaned into Sherlock’s personal space, pitched his voice low and hard, and said, “What do you say when I give you an order?”

“Yes, Captain.”

Sherlock turned adorably pink, his pupils widening as John watched.

“Better,” said John. “Do it now.”

 

Research, Sherlock called it. He claimed he could better pleasure John if he knew what John was into. John privately thought it was a poor excuse for Sherlock to rip away every shred of privacy John still had. Still, it was a lark. Sunday afternoon, two shags in, lying on Sherlock’s rumpled bed while Sherlock sneered at John’s preferred porn sites.

“This one?”

“No.”

“How about this?”

“‘Straight stud gets his ass handed to him’? Really, John?”

“Oh for-you’re one to judge me on my kinks! Where the hell do you find all that army porn?”

“My research is thorough,” Sherlock said loftily.

“I can imagine what was going on in your head when you met me.” John grinned. “Kept a few deductions to yourself, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t think Mike Stamford needed to know the size of your penis. Just as well, too - I underestimated there.”

“Is that why you turned me down? ‘Cus you didn’t think you could take me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John,” said Sherlock, blushing deeply.

He snatched John’s phone out of his hand and typed rapidly.

“Here. Far better quality than the pitiful attempts at sex you seem to be browsing.”

“Fucking hell.” John raised his eyebrows at the Ultra HD men leering at him from his screen. He tapped his way into a random video, and the two of them coolly appraised the grunting efforts of a large, muscular man. “How did you even get into this? Case with a sex addict?”

“I started when I found out that Mycroft was reading my internet history. I searched for the most outlandish porn sites just so he would wrinkle his overlarge nose when he poked it into my business…but then I started to rather get a taste for it.”

John could imagine Mycroft’s disdainful face very well. He cackled at the thought.

“Wait. Does he read my internet history too?”

“Do you even need to ask?”

“BOYS!” Hollered Mrs Hudson. “THE DETECTIVE INSPECTOR IS HERE! ARE YOU DECENT?”

“NEVER!” Sherlock yelled back. “SEND HIM UP!”

 

“Afternoon, Greg, Sally,” John greeted with a grin.

Lestrade’s face contorted as his eyes traced the path from the shirt John was still buttoning up to the sex-mussed hair.

“So you do realise it’s afternoon?”

“You used to be such a good man, John,” Sally sighed, shaking her head.

“Yeah,” said John unrepentantly. “Porn ruins lives, mate.”

Then Sherlock emerged from behind John, wearing his fucking bloody sheet and looking twice as well fucked.

“I don’t get paid enough for this,” said Donovan, fleeing down the stairs.


End file.
